Blind Date
by Teo Torriate
Summary: Blaine's surprised when his blind date actually shows up. Oneshot.


He swallows up the fear that has lodged itself in his throat and explains again, "I'm your blind date." The other man sitting across the table seems quite surprised, his light eyes growing even brighter as it takes in more of the candlelight from the small lamp sitting on the white tablecloth. Mike smiles, a nervous habit of his, and to his relief he gets a smile back.

"Oh, pardon me. I thought I got stood up again, this is my third time being set up by my brother... In the same restaurant too..."

The man laughs quietly, in almost a self-deprecatory way, his lips slanted upwards in a gentle grin while he examines his hands. Mike notes the full, dark eyelashes as the man blinks rapidly, apparently remembering his surroundings, and consequently lifts up his head and widely beams, giving Mike a tightness in his throat. Nerves shaking. Heart beating. Breath catching. Calm down, you didn't even finish introductions.

"Anyway, I'm mumbling. Nice to meet you, I'm Blaine Anderson." Blaine holds out his hand and Mike takes it, the work calluses of his fingertips finding their match in Blaine's. Mike worries. He's not crushing Blaine's hand, is he? He doesn't want to come off too eager. Even if he is. And he so very much is. Hoping his hands aren't wet or sticky from perspiration, he finds it to be a good sign that Blaine doesn't wipe his hands with the cloth napkins... But Blaine could be doing it out of politeness. With that, Mike's already dreading that he barely hears Blaine asking for his name and answers so quickly that he accidentally reveals his full name, including the junior. It is a moment of inward wincing. Mike never goes by his full name, his parents being the only ones who do; everyone makes it sound like a title, as if he is a carbon copy of his father.

"B-but everyone calls me Mike," Mike adds in weakly, an afterthought to his statement. Blaine is so poised and quiet that Mike is certain he is being made fun of; after this date is over Blaine will probably phone a friend and complain how he got a complete spaz for a date tonight.

"Can I possibly call you Michael instead...?"

Blaine grins, one corner of his mouth quirked up, creating a cute little dip in his cheek. Mike fumbles the answer out of his mouth, unintentionally saying "why?" then backing it up with "not like it's a bad thing if you want you can it's totally cool." By the end of it, his throat is scratchy dry and Mike drinks gulps of cold water, but the obstructive lump in his throat refuses to disappear. The other corner raises up too, matching its predecessor in a quaint, relaxed smile. Mike decides he likes that look on Blaine, it's much better than the manic, false, _look I'm happy no really I swear beam _Blaine has worn before. Mike discovers that it's the eyes that do it; they make the difference. Blaine's eyes, golden hued by the orange flame, connects with his this time around. Mike is aware that he's being noticed. Thrill sprints down his spine, fear shortly catching up to it.

Blaine presses his hands together and whispers, "You said everyone calls you Mike. Maybe I don't want to be everyone." Blaine spies him through his lashes, thoroughly pleased with himself as he takes a sip of his water. Mike duly notes that perhaps, perhaps Blaine is flirting with him. Mike didn't even think of it as a possibility. He has toyed the idea, but actually? Mike feels like he is blushing hard. He wipes his dry lips with the cloth napkin, needing something to do.

A waitress approaches them, a bored flat line stretching her ruby red lips thinly until her eyes widen and her lips too plump up in a devious smirk. "Hello gentlemen," her voice is silk, "my name is Santana and I will be serving you today." Mike decides this is the best time to turn his head to gaze upon a painting by his right, _gee those colors give such a nouveau feel to a rather impressionist style doesn't it_–however he cannot miss the manicured hand on his shoulder or the slight dig of mandarin orange nails into his suit jacket that brings him back to reality and his date. Santana is smiling. That causes Mike much discomfort, it's a well known fact that when Santana smiles like that, it is a bad omen.

"Someone likes this restaurant. I think I've seen you twice already? Though this is the first time I've seen you actually _with someone else_." Santana reports, Mike wants to glare at her and he can tell she's practically daring him to, but Blaine speaks up, oblivious and delighted.

"Hah, third time's the charm. Anything you recommend?" Blaine skims over Santana's sass and opens his menu, page set on entrees.

"You really shouldn't ask me, I'm not a regular here. But Mike is. What do _you _recommend?" Santana veils her menace poorly that it is almost transparent.

"Oh that's good! Michael, I'm open to everything." Blaine chuckles and closes his menu.

"Of course you are," Santana whispers, only so that Mike can hear. For some reason, she makes it out to be utterly salacious.

He ignores her the best he can, whatever she says can rile someone if they heed her. He instead peeps Blaine, who is absolutely hanging off of Mike's words. Or in this case, his silence. "Well..." It's a Thursday night and Mike knows that's when they stock fresh salmon. "Salmon, and tell the chef to take it easy on the butter."

Santana's teeth gleams. "Will do. It's seven by the way." She takes their menus and sashays away, round hips swaying as she slinks into the kitchen. Mike panics a little. He didn't expect the time to go by so quick and fidgets, hands sliding over his glass. He wills his leg not to shake.

"Phew," Blaine sighs and Mike's attention is back to him. "I don't want to sound mean... But I'm kind of happy she's gone. She scares me a little." Blaine bashfully chuckles behind his hand, embarrassed. "Once she told me my date wasn't coming, that was the second time to be specific, right when she poured me some water. I barely sat down. So you can guess how happy I am now. I kind of showed you off to her, in a way. Hope you don't mind. I wanted her to see with her own eyes that I have a date and he's a catch." Blaine childishly sticks out his tongue. "I'm like a kid."

Mike smiles softly, more at ease after Blaine laughs to himself, and quells away the worrisome nagging in the corner of his thoughts. He's about to ask Blaine why he's going on these blind dates when Santana returns, two twinkling wine goblets in her hand. Despite Mike and Blaine's vocal refusal, two glasses are filled halfway with deep burgundy, the heady scent of woody grapes wafting up from the liquid. "From the chef," she gabs cheerily and glances at Mike with a telltale glee.

Mike gulps. He clams up while Blaine chatters excitedly, thanking Santana and the unknown chef. Blaine promises to give a stunning review on Yelp for their wonderful date night. "The chef will be happy to hear that. He wants you both to have a wonderfully _romantic_evening." Santana chirps, laying a bread basket onto the table. She exits soon after, Mike all too sure that she and the others behind the doors will be talking.

"She's terribly nice." Blaine hums, picking a loaf to split and butter. "Makes me feel bad for talking bad about her! I tend to judge someone's temperament before I get to know them better. I thought she was a sneaky, prideful diva but here I am, wrong as ever!" Mike rolls his eyes, wanting to say that Blaine's previous assumptions are nevertheless correct. Blaine continues to ponder aloud, "But I haven't seen her this late, maybe she has different shifts... Again, rambling. I'm doing all the talking here! I'm sorry, Michael. If you want to talk..."

"I'm not good at talking but I've been told I'm a decent listener and... I like listening to you," Mike admits. He doesn't talk much, unless he is under pressure, and prefers to conserve his words and choose them wisely for the moment. He can see that his choice of words are perfect this time around as it elicits a warm pink bloom over Blaine's face.

"Pfft, okay. But you're not getting off that easily. At least answer me this?" Blaine asks, testing the air with the tiniest bit of teasing in his tone.

"Go ahead," Mike replies, a smile settling on his features. "Do your worst."

"I was wondering... How do you know my brother? Are you a colleague of his or...?"

"Um."

The things you get into when you have no plan.

"It's okay if you don't want to answer that! Who knows, maybe he paid you to–" Blaine mumbles, running a hand through his hair. From what Mike can see, Blaine has a clouded expression that isn't him, it dampens the very same brightness Mike bathed in moments ago.

"Blaine." Mike interjects, "Believe me, I would pay him just for the chance to meet you." Blaine picks his head up, disbelief in rounded eyes.

"But uh, that's not what happened," Mike spells out quickly, not wanting to cast a different light on himself. He breathes out forcefully.

"I want to be here. I'm happy that I'm here. Hopefully it's the same for you?" The question cracks his voice and Mike clicks his tongue in distaste at his jumbled vocal chords. Blaine's quiet and the single sound is the slide of skin on tablecloth as Blaine places his hand over Mike's. Mike dares to peek at their hands and then slowly lifts his hand from under Blaine's and gently threads their fingers.

Blaine grins boyishly. "It's the same for me too." He pulls his hand away and Mike fights the urge to hold it again. Instead Blaine and he clink their glasses and Mike takes tiny sips, recognizing the wine. It's aged, judging by the scent, at least twenty five years. He puts the glass down, uncomfortable by how flagrant their dinner is. But Blaine is across from him, lips arched so widely that Mike thinks it isn't a crime to splurge a little.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm on these dates all the time," Blaine voices hesitantly. Mike raises a hand to gesture to Blaine that he doesn't need to share however Blaine waves it off and goes on spurred. "I had a bad break-up a year ago. Never got back in the game, so to speak... My brother told me that if I didn't go meet new people, he'd hack my Facebook. And you do not know my brother. I could not have that. So here I was, this same place, and the dates fell through like that." Blaine snaps his fingers. The click echoes in Mike's ears.

"I was about to live a hermit's life if tonight went differently." He daringly stares at Mike. "I guess Cooper was right about sticking around tonight." Mike laughs and rubs the back of his neck.

The food arrives, Santana already announcing dessert on the way and Blaine is beyond gracious whereas Mike experiences tingling headache. They dig in when Santana leaves, the fish is rich and not oily (due to Mike's expert suggestion) and little snippets of conversation volley back and forth between swallows. Mike learns that Blaine is a political activist, working on legislation to clean up some outdated laws. ("I can't believe no one stood up to them before! Practically pre-colonization stuff!") Blaine tries to weasel some information out of Mike as well but the puzzle pieces only match that Mike enjoys cooking and knows an extensive amount about omega-3 fatty acids in fish. ("They help maintain cerebral and vision functions.")

By now, Mike is relaxed and Blaine is engaged in recreating a one-man act about his adventures in law school. "You would think they would know the Miranda Rights, but nope..." Blaine jolts when his phone goes off, a jingle looping until Blaine turns it off. He frowns at the caller ID and chuckles. "My brother. Sorry about that." The phone rings again and Blaine rudely cuts the sound by press of his thumb.

Mike notices that it's calling once more and coaxes Blaine to take it. Blaine, thankful, excuses himself to take the call at the restroom. Watching Blaine's backside retreating, Mike scoffs when he hears a high wolf whistle.

"You gonna tap that?" Santana asks, standing next to him with arms crossed.

"Remember that I'm your boss here," Mike threatens, both of them knowing it's empty. Mike sucks at being intimidating to his employees, especially someone like his head sommelier. Santana shrugs and leans over, taking the two empty plates. She smirks when Mike asks what the dessert is for today.

"Pastry chef isn't here today, but _**he **_thinks baking a cake won't be too hard. Black Forest, we already have some cherry coulis in the fridge. Anything else you want to say, Mr. Chang?"

"Yeah, it's Mike." Mike and Santana share a smile, which fades as a loud boom coming from the kitchen alerts them. Mike gets up from his seat, alarmed. Rachel emerges from the kitchen doors, trying not to draw attention to herself but her slightly sooty face has everyone's heads turning. She approaches Mike's table and...

"Mike, what are you doing here, I swear I was mad frantic trying to find you! Your idiot sous sent me all around and now the kitchen is on blazing fire–"

"Rachel," Mike frets at the difficulty to get a word in.

"And the Stetsons' banquet has started and appetizers have all but slowed to a trickle–"

"Rachel..."

"We're backlogged on orders and Mrs. Humpreys is here and she says the salmon's drowning in oil and sent it back! I cannot maintain a restaurant like this, Mike! This place is five stars for a reason!" Rachel points to herself with fanned out hands.

Santana shakes her head and places her hand on Rachel's shoulder, ending the tirade. "Calm down maitre d' _crazy_." Santana cuts in and Rachel huffs, not finding the situation hilarious like Santana, shrugging off the woman's hand and glaring.

"Of course you find it funny, how comedic, breaking out the Bordeaux and supplying it around like it's water! Even to the underage interns from the culinary school are bumbling about, who cares if they're carrying sharp and pointy life-threatening objects. By the way, that is a violation of the law and we can get fined–"

Rachel's mouth clamps with the palm of Santana's hand. "The wine was to celebrate Mike's first interest in another human being in five years (Mike rolls his eyes), and we only get fined if we get caught." Santana hisses into Rachel's ear and ignores the scandalized look from her coworker. "Fine, fine, we'll handle it." She monitors Mike with reigned boredom. "Looks like we got to cut it short, Mike."

Mike's eyes travel to Blaine's empty plate and a part of him doesn't want to get up. The dining booth they're in now is quiet but a growing rabble is burning through the walls and Mike locates the dismay in the multiple voices. Sighing, he gets up. "Is my uniform ready?" He questions, pulling his suit jacket off. He needs to change, he briefly plans, the smell of cooking will seep into the fabric.

"Yes," Rachel nods, "it's in the locker." She follows Mike out, whose already listing the steps for the comeback. He doesn't talk fast or a lot, but each command is clear. By the time they enter the kitchen, Rachel already sets things into motion, appetizer team now sobered up due to impromptu firefighting. The charred cherries linger in the air and the first thing Mike does is open a window. He turns, gives everyone a once-over.

"Puck, really?" Mike disapproves of the mess on the floor. The walls. Everything honestly.

His sous-chef laughs and puts up his chocolate powder dusted hands in clear defeat. "I have a new-found respect for Kurt. Shit's hard."

Mike takes a breath. "Okay, let's clean the mess, it slows mobility. Appetizers in ten, can we do that? I'll be on entrees with Puck in a minute." Everyone shouts back loudly in agreement and the kitchen roars alive. Mike finishes buttoning up and rolling up his sleeves, stepping out of the lockers, trying not to think about disappointments. Focus. If he's fast and the flame's hot, he thinks he can get most of the food out in half an hour. Maybe Blain–Blaine's face on the second night, his eyes blankly staring at his empty glass of water as Mike glimpses through the opening from the kitchen, and still soulless when Mike pours more water for him a minute after. Mike remembers how alive they became when Blaine's food arrives, at the wide eyes and the soft thank you when Mike places it down. It looks delicious. It stings Mike.

There's disappointment from events failing you, and then there's disappointment from people failing you. The latter is worse, Mike knows that.

Nonetheless, Mike can't begin to think about it now and mechanically gets to work, knives flying like they are Mike's very own fingers. He barely registers the sound of his environment. Only the orders on the receipts are code his brain goes by, everything else unimportant. Puck's enthusiastic yelling to interns, the medley of knives hitting wood, the scrape of spoons against bowls, and the wonderment in hushed whispers of the head chef's skill gets swallowed up in the focus. In this high-pressure cooker, Mike is at peace.

He doesn't have a lot of baking experience, compared to his pastry chef, however the cake turns out alright, the slices of cherries and dark chocolate curls blanketed by wisps of coulis. Puck decides that they should outsource pastries to Mike as well and Mike retorts back that Puck has volunteered to help set-up for tomorrow's service at 5 AM. Anyway, Mike cuts a thick piece, dusting it quickly because he has a minute until he needs to get a steak from the pan before it travels to medium-rare from rare, and waves in one of his waitresses. As the girl approaches, he drops the pen on the table. Mike sends her off with the plate to booth one, returning back to saute onions. Several interns sniffle as they slice into the vegetable and Puck demands someone to open another window.

An hour and fifty is what it takes to stabilize the kitchen, Rachel checks in periodically with both thumbs up, touting her customer skills as most exceptional. Mike agrees, she's one of the best. Before she leaves he blurts out, albeit quietly, about the customer in booth one. Rachel stops in her modest black heels, careful as she states that she doesn't know who cleared the table. It's to be expected, Mike shouldn't be surprised or even remotely disheartened. Mike thanks her genuinely; he needs to go peel some beets to roast them for a warm salad. Rachel mumbles about the banquet and they both get on with their obligations.

"Two minutes until closing!" Puck booms, rearranging the knives in the rack of the washer. Mike's on a stool, checking inventory and stock, tomorrow's menu on his mind. He has an influx of peanuts, maybe they could work a satay appetizer, and they should come up something for the flank steak that they have. The others are scrubbing down the kitchen, outside cleaning tables. No one remembers when the customer in booth one left, all that remains is a paid receipt.

Mike rubs his temples, what with the recipes beginning to frustrate him. "Flank steak," he postulates and Puck ceases his rummaging for a fork. He has a plate of Mike's cake in his hand and figures _what the hell _and uses the nearest utensil he can find, the teaspoon. He scoops a delicate amount of cake into his mouth.

"_Sobrebarriga a la Brasa_," Puck answers through chews, breathing in deeply to get the full taste. The cherry pieces are juicy and the chocolate rich enough to control the tartness. All in all, Mike's a gastronomical genius. Goddamn it, his competitive nature should flare up but the cake is _too good_. The bastard.

"Don't drink the beer when you're cooking it and we're golden. What happened tonight won't happen again." Mike warns.

"Aw, don't tell me you struck out?"

Mike shrugs, the subject sorer than his aching arms.

"Maybe he'll be back next week?" Puck has a vague idea about Blaine, all he knows are what Santana fills in, about the sap who got stood up, way back when Blaine has first entered the restaurant.

Mike disagrees. Not with this date.

"Want some cake? You did a hell of a job, Mike."

Mike's not very hungry. Mike congratulates Puck, he did well with the fish for the meal, and Puck laughs back–less butter next time?–to which Mike smiles. By the time tomorrow's menu's done, the clocks read 11:11 PM, ten hours to go until opening. Puck and Mike put on their coats, Puck whistling lowly at the "duds" Mike's sporting. Mike supposes he did go all out and reflects that it's good to do this, in small dosages. It'll be another five years until he has enough reckless courage. Reserves are dried out for this year.

Puck slams open the front door, not noticing the shadow hovering outside it and almost flattens the poor guy to the side of the wall. "Jesus!" Puck swears, the shock charging his irritated grunt. Mike knows how much Puck hates being startled. Almost-pancaked person peels himself from the wall and blinks rapidly, sheepish grin showing white teeth, a white plastic bag rustling on his arm. "Sakes, man! We're closed! What are you looking in for?!" Puck closes in but Mike's hand halts him. The firm press of Mike's hand over his collar signals something, something that Puck doesn't know but Mike's bound to inform him in due time. Mike sees Puck warily glancing at their other pal, Puck sizing the man up and concluding Mike can take him if it ends south as he emits a breath between his teeth. "If you do anything to my boy, you're dead." Puck growls and claps Mike hard on the shoulder, eyes steely as he backs off slow and starts his walk to his place. When Puck's gone from vision, the man relaxes. And then glances at Mike.

"You're _his _boy?"

"We're not together like that." Mike stammers, he didn't expect to see Blaine out of all people. He can't read Blaine's expression in the dark, the streetlights providing inadequacy when it comes to the lighting department. Blaine pulls out his cellphone and Mike's stomach is glad that he didn't have cake.

Blaine tilts his head similar to a curious cat, mouth scrunched to a corner as he _hmms _and says, "I don't think I'm going to go on these blind dates anymore." Mike nods in reply, he recognizes it's understandable in Blaine's situation. Blaine crouches down, placing the plastic bag carefully on the steps.

"I mean, they're blind for a reason, you don't know who're you're being matched with. It could be a complete asshole, for all you know." Mike cringes. It's silent aside from Mike's loud breaths, he wonders if Blaine can hear them too, the puffs of fear and anxiety bubbling inside.

"...My brother said he was sorry no one showed up tonight." Blaine says and Mike freezes. "Said the guy bailed, called him after seven that he wasn't coming. My brother got worried about me and that's why he kept on calling me." Blaine pockets the phone and trades it for a piece of white paper. "And I got your note," Blaine unfolds the flaps, reading over the scribbled words on the crinkled surface.

"It was on the plate, next to the cake. Luckily I didn't get sauce all over it. The entire 'I'm sorry but I have to go, I'd like to be on another blind date with you?' ...Like I said before, not really going to happen." Mike presses his lips thinly, sluggishly nodding.

"Do you know what a blind date is?" Blaine proposes with a wry smirk. "No, don't answer it, rhetoric question." He quips when Mike opens his mouth. Mike closes it, confused.

"A blind date is a date between two people who have not met before. Such as in the case of you and I today. I didn't know who you are and you me and there you go, blind date. So now that we know each other, we can't possibly go on another blind date, can we? That's why it's not really going to happen..." Blaine's hand meets the wall next to his left shoulder.

Mike's heart beats incredibly fast; he's the one with his back on the wall, Blaine looming over him. When did it all happen? He sucks in a breath and Blaine's eyes chase the motion. Mike's hands rub against the grainy texture of the wall, which is the single tactile sensation that's not overwhelming him. Blaine is cinnamon and sweet spices and radiates warmth. Mike's breathing it in. Blaine's hair tickles his cheek and Mike shuts his eyes when they brush skin, Blaine's hands running up his shoulders and clinging there, Mike's own hands hanging in the air. He feels the soft curve of Blaine's lips on the outer shell of his ear and every muscle in his body tenses when Blaine curls his face towards him.

"Also, I promised myself not to kiss on the first date. Especially blind dates." Blaine pulls back and smirks, Mike's lips shift to a pout that he has no control of. Mike feels stupid for thinking otherwise. "I'd rather get acquainted to the mouth I'll be kissing, thank you very much."

Immediately Blaine takes Mike's hand, guiding him away from the wall and to a street bench just across the restaurant. Blaine sits first, Mike next, and Blaine digs into the plastic bag he picked up as they made their way and slide opens a carton. Inside is the piece of cake, still untouched. Hold on a sec. Mike surveys Blaine, not able to talk or think proper.

"Michael, You have got to be kidding me, I can't finish something like this by myself," Blaine scolds with mock severity and soon Mike has a plastic fork in his hand, mirroring Blaine's. "And now the date won't be so boring."

Blaine persuades Mike into talking about himself, which incorporates a lot of persistent "pleases" on Blaine's side, and Mike needs no nudging at all when the conversation involves his restaurant. It's been open for two years now, Mike retells Blaine stories of how he and Puck went around, smashing walls in to accommodate for space when they had gotten the place. It's the place where Puck proposed to his girlfriend, the place where as much as they loved their waiter, Finn, they had to let him go because of all the plates he broke. Mike says he's the one that brings in the produce now, an unforgettable member of their family. It's the place Santana had a wine cellar made with her own money, and she is exactly as Blaine says she is and she loves it.

The waitress whom Blaine met is Brittany. She's not good at taking orders but can balance seven plates on a single arm. Rachel's their head maitre d'hotel, she has her perfectionist tendencies and hogs the microphone during karaoke night and without her, the restaurant would have gone bankrupt in its first three months. And yes, Mike's the head chef. But he's not really their boss, although they all joke about it. He used to be an accountant, and during tax season they give him more than restaurant receipts. He went to culinary school with Puck and have been friendly rivals since. Puck's the one who butters too much.

"My passion's cooking. I like how food can create a mood in someone, how it change people's mood for the better." Blaine stops mid-chew of his lips and Mike witnesses the gears in Blaine's head click. Mike shies away to view the lake, the waters dappling the moon's glow. Now that he's fulfilled his quota of talking for the day, Mike brings his gaze back to Blaine, who's staring at the cake. "Please try it," Mike requests politely, "I baked it."

Blaine forks a small piece into his mouth, savoring it for the longest time with a blissed expression. His eyes are closed, lashes resting over the skin, tongue skimming on the tiniest corner to pick up a flake of chocolate before it disappears. Mike can never get enough of people enjoying his food, it makes him happy. With Blaine, it makes Mike thrilled that he's grinning.

"You want to tell me if I have something on my face or what?" Blaine jokes at Mike's silent scrutiny when he opens his eyes.

Mike breathes out, heart engaged in some sort of Olympics relay race which now he doesn't mind. "You have something on your face." He smears the tip of his fork over Blaine's top lip. Chuckling at Blaine's complaint, he then cuts himself a neat square of cake, takes a bite, and commends himself. It's the perfect balance of bittersweet, the dark chocolate he used was prime stuff, and he likes that it's not overtly saccharine, which is good since he's not a big fan of sugar. Not bad, he muses, he should make one at home later.

Blaine taps his shoulder, getting Mike's attention, and smirks, saying that Mike has something on his face as well. Mike shrugs, reaching over for the napkin on Blaine's side, making it much more easier when Blaine grabs his suit's lapels and drags him into a kiss. Mike is off-guard by it, his throat constricts when Blaine's tongue slides over his mouth and sighs (Blaine says moans, but Mike is sure it's a sigh) as they get the angle right. Blaine leans back proudly after a second or so, fork playing around with the cake crumbs. Mike's face is hot. He guesses that's what five years does to you, maybe? "W-whuh," is Mike's response.

"Did I kiss you stupid?" Blaine teases and Mike straightens up, pouting as he licks his lips. The cake's too sweet, he decides finally. Blaine's eyes are following the movement again, causing Mike's hands to grip the top of his pants in a short twitch.

"Confused. You kissed me. I'm confused." Mike edges out hesitantly.

"Oh, was it too far?" Blaine squeaks out and is visibly relieved when Mike astoundingly shakes his head at mach-speed. "Then what, oh my god, was I _bad_?"

"No, you were great! Um," Mike covers a side of his face with his free hand. He hates his inability to handle his fluster. "Yeah, no... you're great. Awesome. You're awesome. B-but I thought you didn't kiss on the first date? Specifically blind ones?" Mike's hand is tugged aside, half Mike letting it and half Mike watching helplessly. Blaine's smile reassures him somewhat, it's not mischievous like it was a few minutes ago; it's comforting.

"Who said this is a continuation of our first date? Also, in technical terms, you're not a stranger to me anymore."

Mike doesn't voice his arguments with that logic when Blaine kisses him once more.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I know, it's been forever and I'm sorry! Here's a oneshot, so don't hate me maybe?**

**I'll get back into the groove of writing soon. I have another oneshot in the works and the plotlines of TTSBF laid out (finally)!**

**This was inspired by Harry's interview where he said that he liked to cook and that he and his co-star Darren had dinner together in a London restaurant-where they met owner, Gordon Ramsay! And you say the ship doesn't sail itself.**


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